


Imposters In This Country

by mona1347, poisontaster



Series: Every Broken Thing [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, F/M, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Past Relationship(s), Season/Series 01, Sibling Incest, Undecided Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-09
Updated: 2006-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-07 19:26:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5468201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mona1347/pseuds/mona1347, https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's tomorrow, but Sam still can't ask for the things he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imposters In This Country

**Author's Note:**

> Mona1347 wrote a part, solo, that goes between "Blurry" and this story. It can be found here: [Take it All Away](http://mona1347.livejournal.com/166921.html). Gratitude to inlovewithnight for beta services.

At the restaurant the next morning, Dean makes a point of flirting with the waitress. She actually seems into his particular brand of crazy, grinning and flirting back, shameless as any cat in heat. The diner's pretty much empty and she flutters glittered eyelashes and invites him into the back.

Sam doesn't know if the flicker of darkness in Dean's eyes as he glances Sam's way is wishful thinking or not. In any case, a second later, the million-kilowatt smile is firmly back in place and Dean slides out of the booth while Sam stabs moodily at his oatmeal.

He has no reason to feel jealous. Dean's not _his_ ; Dean's just his brother. Just. And just because it was his ass Dean's cock was filling last night doesn't mean he gets any say in what Dean does with it today. Especially when _he's_ the reason Dean does it in the first place.

_...can't we just...have this?_

_...I don't know. Ask me tomorrow._

It's tomorrow. Sam hasn't asked.

He shoves his bowl away, stomach soured.

The waitress—Becky, the nametag on those upstanding breasts said Becky—starts making noise; loud, slurry moans through the cardboard wall of the kitchen or a storage closet or, fuck, whatever. Sam doesn’t really care right now because all he can see behind his eyes is Dean pressing her—fucking her—into the wall and whispering encouragement in her ear. _Louder. C’mon baby, scream for me._

The diner’s only other customer, a slightly older guy with glasses and a beard, folds up his newspaper, drops some cash on the table and jets. Sam envies him. Oh, he could get up and leave; he could go sit in the Impala, or whatever, but he’d still know. And Dean would come back and know that he drove Sam out. Sam’s not going to give him the satisfaction.

It doesn’t stop him, however, from eating every last crumb of Dean’s pancakes, eggs and bacon.

***

This isn't working.

He can get Dean to fuck him, he can make Dean come, but it's...impersonal. A duty. A responsibility like some list Dean's got in his head: Gas the car, shoot the bad guys, clean the guns, fuck your brother senseless...check. He won't let Sam kiss him or touch him; he won't have Sam any other way than on his knees so they don't have to look each other in the face. He leaves no marks ( _anymore_ ) and claims no ownership.

 _Shh_ , Dean says, _I know what you need._

But it's not true. Not like it used to be. Sam needs something else now; he's just not sure how to go about getting it.

And the damn thing is, Sam doesn’t know when this happened.

Wanting Dean…well, that’s been forever, more conscious at some times than others, but he doesn’t know when he so thoroughly gave up even on the pretense of normal, when he let himself get taken over by this yawing desperation for _Dean, Dean, Dean._

Sometime between shooting Dean in a red and cloudy hyper-rage and almost losing him to a heart broken in the line of fire? _Earlier_ , when he saw his one lifeline to normal go up in a cloud of flame? Or _later_ , with Cassie, who could have been Dean’s version of normal? Or was it even earlier, before Stanford entirely?

( _No, we don’t talk/speak/think about that…_ )

Does it even matter—when? Would tracing the cause be like another job, where he splashes gasoline over the corpse of _why_ , burns it and becomes free? Could it really be that easy? Does he even _want_ to be free?

_I wanted this. I…want it. I want you._

Three times. Three times he’s managed to beg, trick or cajole Dean into fucking him; a magic number, but not, apparently, magical enough. Sam rakes both hands through his hair, puts his head in his arms on the table and waits for Dean and Becky to be done.

***

“I can’t _believe_ you did that!”

Sam slouches deeper in the seat. “I was hungry,” he says, belied by the queasy roil of his stomach.

“Hey—careful of the glove box, Gigantor!”

Sam grinds down on the impulse to shove his knees further in the dashboard just from spite. He’s not twelve anymore. Still, he’s aware he’s perilous close to that line when he mutters, “Maybe if you hadn’t left me out there for so long I wouldn’t have _been_ so hungry.”

Dean glances over at him and one eyebrow kinks for a split second, too fast for Sam to tell what it means. Then it’s eyes back on the road and a faint hateful smirk. “Maybe if you ordered a _real_ breakfast instead of that glop you insist as passing off as food, you wouldn’t have to resort to eating _mine_.”

“Fuck you, Dean.”

He expects Dean to come back with one of his patented smart-assed remarks, something biting and sarcastic; something that will give him the leeway to unleash everything that bubbles beneath the surface.

But Dean doesn’t say anything. Instead, he upshifts the Impala roughly, the gears grinding in protest. He _never_ grinds the Impala’s gears. Sam looks over and sees Dean’s hands are clenched on wheel and gearshift respectively, white-knuckled and taut.

“Fuck,” Sam mutters to himself, puts his head back and pretends to sleep.

***

“I mean, aren’t we ever going to say anything about it?”

It just bursts out of him, as surprising to him as it probably is to Dean.

Dean doesn’t look surprised. He looks blank and sort of pissed. “Dude, what _is_ it with you and all the fucking talking? What are we sharing our feelings about now?”

Sam’s got Jess’s necklace wound tight around his fingers; when his hand clenches, the braided leather cuts and abrades the skin. But what he says is, “How about us?”

It’s a little strange, how much he’s had to relearn Dean’s expressions; much harder than retraining on knife or bow. They’ve changed a lot. And for all his surface shallowness, there’s a deep-rooted opacity beneath that Sam’s never been on the wrong side of before. So he doesn’t know if there’s anything to the sketchy eyeball Dean throws his way. “Is this about Dad again? Because we’ll…”

“ _No._ ” Sam pinches the bridge of his nose tiredly. “I don’t mean us like the Winchesters, I mean _us_ , man. You and me.”

And really, maybe he’s not ready for this conversation either, because he can’t bring himself to come out and say it. Not blank and bald and in the pitiless light of day. _So…have you noticed we’re having sex lately? Like…progressively **more** sex? Because I have. And I’m just wondering… Well. I’m wondering if that happens to mean anything to you?_

Sam cringes from the thought of _that_ conversation. _This is why lawyers prepare their statements ahead of time_ , he thinks.

“Well, last I checked, _you and me_ are on our way to…where are we going again?”

Sam sighs. “Saginaw.”

“Yeah.” Dean swings out past an eighteen wheeler into oncoming traffic and Sam gropes for the door handle until they’re back in their lane, quietly pressing a nonexistent passenger’s side brake pedal.

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I don’t know what the hell you mean, so stop sniffing the glue and focus, dude. This is _your_ dream we’re chasing. Shouldn’t you be thinking about _that?_? Or fuck, man, get some sleep; we both know you’re not getting enough of that.”

Sam opens his hands and looks down at Jess’s necklace, the erratic strobe of the headlights revealing and concealing the tiny diamond shaped pendant. Softly, he says, “You told me to ask.”

The silence goes on so long that he doesn’t think Dean’s going to answer. Then Dean sighs quietly. “I said ask me tomorrow,” he says finally, no louder than that sigh. “It’s not tomorrow any more, it’s today.” Another gap in words, just as awkward and Sam’s throat tightens and sours. “Get some sleep, Sam; I’ll get us to Saginaw.”

***

Michigan is miles behind them. Sam can’t sleep.

Every time he closes his eyes, it plays out again. Not the actual nightmare or vision or whatever the hell it is, but just a stupid mental tape loop of _that_ moment. The moment Dean dies.

It’s over. He _knows_ its over, but he can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop seeing it. Can’t stop making it hurt like it’s real, like he’s bleeding to death under his skin where something vital, something _important_ was ripped away along with the back of Dean’s skull.

Finally he can’t take it any more. He flings back the thin blanket and cheap sheet in a swooping wave. Dean insisted on separate beds, even though they can can’t really afford the extra cash. He stands swaying over Dean’s bed for a long time, just listening to the soft snore of breath, watching the blanket rise and fall in the tiger-striped light. He needs to _see_ , but seeing isn’t enough. He needs to touch, but he’s scared.

There’s never been a time before that he didn’t think he could reach out his hand and find Dean there. Not when he was little and Dean was the center of everything, not when he left, needing his own center, not at Stanford when he was completely out of their orbit altogether. Now Dean’s—quite literally—all he has. All he ever really had to begin with.

Sam’s head aches. It’s ached for days. He doesn’t want to think about this anymore. He’s so _tired_ of thinking.

Dean wakes when Sam’s weight hits the edge of the bed. One hand immediately slides under the pillow for his knife, but then he lifts his head, blinks blearily and asks, “Sam?”

Sam’s throat is dry. So dry. He opens his mouth and for a moment, nothing comes out. _Dean,_ he thinks, and finally manages a rusty, “Yeah.”

“Shit.” Dean’s breath hisses out of him and he falls back onto the pillow with his eyes closed. “What the hell, Sam? You trying to give me…” Dean trails off and Sam’s hands clench. “Never mind. Dammit. I was having a really good dream.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, _can’t_ , still perched on the edge of the bed. It would be so _easy_ ; to just stretch out his hand and make contact. Warm, _living_ , breathing skin. But his arm remains at his side, limp as if all the muscles have been severed.

When he speaks again, Dean’s voice is different, less breezy. He sighs. “What, Sammy? Another dream?” In the daytime, Dean would make the question teasing, mocking. It’s different between them at night.

The understatement of the thought, the greatest understatement of his entire _life_ , makes Sam laugh, a yelping bark.

“Fuck.” Dean says the word dully and without heat. Then his hands are on Sam’s biceps drawing him back and down, into the cradle of Dean’s bones. “Like this,” Dean says. “Okay? Just…just this.”

Sam nods. “Okay.”

He breathes out and arches his back into Dean’s warmth as though this is allowed. As though he can _have_ this.

The truth is that he’d take anything.

***

Sometimes he thinks Dean might need him--want him--as much as he wants Dean. It's nothing spoken (of course it's not) but sometimes...when Dean's hands linger too long, stitching, bandaging, tracing old scars and new; when he changes clothes or comes out of the shower and some shadow crosses Dean's eyes a moment before he looks away; when he falls asleep in the car and dreams hazily of someone's hand on his head, stroking, and wakes up with his hair mussed...

He thinks, _This. This is something._ And _, I can use this._

And then, despairing, he thinks, _I am **so** going to hell for this._

But he doesn't stop. Of course he doesn't.

***

When he wakes, it’s still dark, but he knows dawn is near. Dean’s against his back, arms lax and careless around him, a presence of drowsing heat.

There’s another aspect to this.

Against the curve of his lower back, Dean is hard.

Sam doesn’t take it personally…but he’d like to. He’d like to believe it has something to do with the weight of his body in Dean’s arms, something to do with _Sam_ and not just random morning wood and friction.

 _You can **make** it about you,_ a voice that sounds remarkably like his own observes, and Sam feels his own cock twitch in response. The breath in his lungs turns superheated and semiliquid, taking twice as much effort to move and burning as it goes.

Sam turns over. This isn’t the first time he and Dean have shared a bed. Dean moves with him without waking; rolls onto his back and his right arm pulls Sam along, in against his side. Sam breathes out and slides with the pull, ending up with the rhythmic beat of Dean’s heart under his cheek and his hand flattened just above Dean’s pelvis. Just above Dean’s still-hard dick.

Dean’s hand traces sleepy, aimless swirls over the naked skin of Sam’s back and shoulders. It should be comforting, and it _is_ , but it also brings all the blood stinging to the surface of his skin, hot and pebbled with goose bumps. It goes straight to his cock, iron-hard and sensitive.

Jess used to delight in that, the hypersensitivity of his back and neck, not knowing. A single glide of the fingernail that produces arousal, automatic and mostly helpless. It’s been a while since he’s thought of her-- _her_ , untangled by the rage and the blackness, and it feels appropriate that it’s now, like this, with the only other person he’s ever loved that way.

Sam shifts again, just a little, careful and furtive. Just a little bend of his knees, a little slide of his head.

Sam's just going to rest his head here. That's all. Just...rest. Against his brother's dick; oh God. Sam breathes in deep, cheek sliding along worn boxers and the hardened skin beneath. Dean's cock twitches and his hips shift a little. Fuck. Sam's losing it. He's fucking losing it. He nuzzles harder, a small desperate moan leaking between his lips. The part in Dean's boxers splits against the skin of Sam's face and, oh god, Sam can see, can _feel_ , a sliver of hot and silky flesh pressing against the fabric, begging to come out and...he's just going to taste. He just has to taste it, just once, he's just going to... _oh god Dean_.

Dean makes a half-noise, stifled and deep in his chest. The fingers of one hand thread deeply into Sam’s hair, palming his skull; the other grips Sam’s shoulder, both gestures hard and sudden as if he’ll push Sam off or down or away. Like…any moment.

But he doesn’t.

Sam reaches up and closes his fingers over Dean’s wrist. Not to grab or squeeze. Just holding on, but he can feel Dean’s pulse drum and roll under his thumb. Sam closes his eyes, opens his mouth and takes Dean in, all hard lips and gentle teeth, tonguing roughly and grinding his own hips into the sheet like that time, that first time.

Dean gasps. His hands _dig_ ; tomorrow Sam will wear this mark, Dean’s bruise on his shoulder and the thought aches and kindles in his belly and groin, blood-hot and wicked. Then—impossibly, incredibly—Dean’s grip goes lax. His hands fall away, shaking, to lie flat on the mattress and he arches, cock fucking deeper into Sam’s mouth in a single slow thrust. “S… _Sam_ ,” Dean breathes, like it hurts to say it, like it just _hurts_.

They’ve never done this before, Sam’s mouth on Dean, Sam _servicing_ Dean the way Dean seems to always give Sam what he needs. Sam is dizzy from more than lack of air and hot oily drops of pre-come sear the back of his throat. Sam makes a noise of his own—needy, greedy—and shoves Dean’s thighs up and further apart, golden wiry hairs crinkling under his nails. His thumb traces arcs in the crease of Dean’s leg, where the tendons jitter and quiver in response. Dean shakes, hard racking shivers, though his hands stay at his sides. He makes choked-off little cries in which Sam can only decipher pieces of words.

”…ah…notokay…God, fuck…no…no…nngh…”

He wants to tell Dean it _is_ okay, it’s better than okay, but if he stops, if he takes his mouth away, he knows they’ll never get it back, this moment. Dean will push him away, push him off ; fuck or suck him until he’s boneless, stupid and spent and has forgotten why he’s doing this in the first place.

But the other side of that is not letting Dean think too much or too long. Sam grabs Dean’s hands and shoves them back into his hair, letting the fingernails scrape against his scalp as he rises and sinks again, sliding and rubbing his mouth wetly over Dean.

More of those breathless quiet moans and Dean’s wrists tighten again like he wants to pull away. Sam lips the ridge of Dean’s cock head and tongues the slit, tasting salt and skin and pre-come, while at the same time continuing to hold Dean’s hands in place.

 _Come on, come on, come on_ , Sam thinks, over the friction of his own body against the rough-soft texture of the sheets. _Dammit, Dean, just…can’t you fucking let go for once? Just do it. Please, just…_

_Just touch me._

_Just…fuck my mouth._

When Sam goes down again, Dean arches up a second time, making a terrible, tearing groan and his hands fist and tighten in Sam’s hair. ”Sam,” he whispers again, hardly a sound at all. “Oh fuck, _Sam…_ ”

 _Yes!_ Sam thinks. What actually comes out of him is far more inarticulate and louder than he expects, a humming moan around Dean’s cock. _Yes, yes, yes, oh God, **finally** , yes!_

Tiny tremors run under Dean’s skin as he holds Sam’s head steady, but then he’s _doing it_ , thrusting steady and careful—oh, so _careful_ —into Sam’s mouth. Sam can feel each of Dean’s fingers individually, cradled around the bone, the pinkies dragging against the delicate and sensitive skin of his neck. The touch shivers down his spine and vibrates in his cock like a goddamned tuning fork.

It takes Sam a minute to coordinate it all, breathing, sucking, the dizzy fever heat in his own dick as he grinds and slides into the sheets and mattress like that time, that first time, but he knows he’s got it when Dean goes from near-silent half-murmurs into a rising, deepening, rasping, “Oh, fuck, oh Sam, _Sam…_ , oh fuck, _Sam_ …” and his fingers slip and slide through Sam’s hair, alternately gripping and loosening.

Sam’s mind goes— _finally_ —and he takes it, wet and sloppy and completely inexpert until Dean can’t be careful anymore, bucking hard against the back of Sam’s throat.

”Fuck…no…no…wait… _Sam_ …”

At once, he’s trying to pull Sam away, and Sam knows Dean’s about to come, his chest and breath hitching, his hips erratic and half-wild. Sam reaches up and disentangles Dean’s hands, locking his fingers through those of his brother’s as he inhales and takes Dean as deep as he can, deeper than is entirely comfortable, poised on the edge of his own orgasm.

“Oh…oh, _fuck_!”

Dean _shatters_ , shaking, breaking, crying out hoarsely in a voice Sam doesn’t even recognize, and that’s all it takes, he’s coming apart too, hot, wet and sticky all over the sheets, his thighs, his belly.

He milks and swallows until Dean is empty and then lets Dean slide out and over his lips one last time, panting and only dimly aware of the ache in his jaw. Dean’s fingers slip away from his, fumbling over his shoulders and then down, until he’s pulling Sam up to him, Sam’s hands and knees sliding awkwardly as he goes.

Dean’s mouth hits his in a clash of teeth and lips that borders on bloody, Dean’s tongue pushing hard against Sam’s. It’s been so long since he’s been kissed at all—by anything human, at any rate, and never by Dean. Never. Oh God, never. Sam makes a noise against Dean’s lips, loud and embarrassing— _finally, God, **finally!**_ —and even so recently spent, his cock gives a half-hearted twitch.

Dean reaches down the length of Sam’s body and slips under Sam’s boxers. If Sam could speak, he’d tell Dean, but Dean’s relentless in his second plunder of Sam’s mouth. Instead, Sam puts his hand over Dean’s, smears it through the wetness splattered across him and coats both their fingers.

Dean twitches, startled and pulls back, glazed green eyes blinking into Sam’s. “You…already?”

Sam doesn’t answer, though the blush burns in his ears and face. Instead, he brings their conjoined fingers up to Dean’s mouth and says softly, “Please?”

First Dean’s eyes close, and then Sam’s as Dean bends to gently and thoroughly lick, nibble and suck the milky remainder of Sam’s come from both their hands. Sam’s heart stutters and again he feels his breath alter to something thick and other than air, scalding across his skin.

“You want me,” he breathes, like a revelation, a whisper that goes across Dean’s sweaty skin and causes shivers like ripples. “You do. You want me.”

He opens his eyes and finds Dean already looking at him, a trace of impatience in his face. “Don’t be stupid,” he says.

Dean says that a lot, but it’s not often he can make Sam _feel_ stupid. “But… Then… Then _why_?”

Dean rolls onto his back, characteristically impatient. “Because it doesn’t work.”

“It could.”

“It can’t.”

“How can you say that?” Sam levers up on his elbow. “No one has to know, Dean.”

“I could give a shit about other people, Sam.” Dean jerks his arm from underneath Sam and sits up. “I’m going to shower.”

Sam reaches and catches Dean just above his elbow. Dean’s the more solidly muscled, but Sam has the stubbornness and the leverage. “Wait. Dean, I want to talk about this.”

“When _don’t_ you want to talk about it, Sam?” Dean’s face is turned away and under the sarcasm, his voice sounds uneven. “Christ. I just want to take a fucking shower. You’re going to need one too. Unless you’re planning on sleeping like that.”

“Is that an invitation?”

Dean’s shoulders tighten, but he says nothing. It’s always his last refuge, silence; as long as Sam can remember.

“We can dance around this forever, Dean, but it’s not going to change the facts. You like fucking me. Okay? We like fucking each other.”

“I don’t…!” Dean breaks off and almost visibly grinds his teeth together. “It’s not about what I like. Or what _you_ like.”

“We’re grown adults. I mean…okay, it’s a little not normal…” Dean scoffs, but Sam pushes on anyway, his fingers digging harder into Dean’s skin as he gets angrier. “It’s not normal, but when have we ever done ‘normal’, Dean? We’re not hurting anybody.”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“You never do. But I’m sick of this, Dean. I’m sick of having you only halfway.”

“Oh, _that’s_ rich.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” _And why won’t you look at me?_

“You’re always so fast to point up how smart you are any other time, Sammy; why is it times like this you always play dumb?”

“Maybe for the same reason you can never just come out and say what the hell it is you mean?”

 _How is this happening?_ Sam wonders, even as his mouth, his voice, go on without him. _**Why** is this happening? When did we go from post-coital to post-Apocalyptic?_

“I _said_ what the fuck it is I mean,” Dean snaps. “But as usual, you’re only hearing—and remembering—what you want to.”

“Then what, Dean? Why don’t you explain it to me one more time?” Sam reaches out and touches Dean’s naked back, still sweaty, feeling it flinch and then tense. “Explain to me how you don’t want this.” He slides a little forward and mouths one of Dean’s vertebra. Dean’s breath catches. “Explain to me…” Kiss. “Why…” Kiss. “We can’t.” Sam rises to his knees until his lips brush the nape of Dean’s neck. “Why it won’t work.”

Dean sighs and it’s like everything goes out of him with his breath, leaving him shrunken and tired. He turns and catches Sam by the wrists, holding Sam off. “Because you leave, Sam,” he says. The look on his face…God. Fuck. “You…don’t want this. And I… There’s only so much I can give, to put it back together again when you go.”

“I’m not gone,” Sam protests, but even he hears the unspoken _yet_ in his words and knows he’s said the exact wrong thing. This life…it’s a means to an end, and Dean…is something else. Dean is…forever. But the distinction is wasted on Dean. In Dean’s mind, he _is_ the life.

“It won’t work,” Dean says again, softly. “It can’t.”

“Dean—“

“No. Just…stop it. Stop this. Please. Because…it’s just about all I can handle…being what you need.”

“Dean—“

“I’m going to shower,” Dean says, and this time it’s Dad’s voice, the final voice that allows no argument or reprieve. He lets Sam’s wrists go and Sam settles back on his knees, just smart enough to know when he’s lost. Again.


End file.
